


it will be nailed to your jawbone

by humancorn



Series: hannah's vent fics [4]
Category: Marvel
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, And Clint and Nat are my scapegoats because I ID the most with them, And what's going on with me, Angst, Anorexia, Depression, Eating Disorders, F/M, I just wanted to write about my feelings, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Multiple Characters are on ED spectrum, NSFW, Serum being used for non-intended purpose, Straight Sex, Vaginal Sex, anorexic clint barton, anorexic natasha romanova, please don't yell at me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-10
Updated: 2017-08-10
Packaged: 2018-12-13 19:59:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11767281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/humancorn/pseuds/humancorn
Summary: Hi my name is Ana and I'm here to save you. Very smart of you to call me. We will work together and leave no footprints. We'll have wings eventually.





	it will be nailed to your jawbone

**Author's Note:**

> For Alyssa, who keeps calling me "an anorexic piece of shit." Love you, you ass.

Some days he felt right as rain, good as new, better than ever, and some days he, well, didn’t. Some days it was hard to wake himself up, convince himself that getting out of bed was something he needed to do, and then proceed to actually _physically_ get out of bed. Sometimes it was hard to remember that ‘hey, people are supposed to eat,” and some days it was hard to NOT convince himself that ‘hey, you don’t need to eat, because you’re such a fat pig’. Some days he could go all day without his hands shaking and his pulse beating like a kickdrum and some days it happened every other hour. Some days he went to bed with no problem, other days he laid in bed, eyes tired but still awake. Some days he would get in bed and stay in bed and other days he would cry over bleeding thighs and wrists, thinking obsessively about how much he wanted to die and how easy it would be to stab himself in the neck. Some days were easy and some days were hard. He was used to it. Nothing really fazed him, not anymore.

He was used to missing meetings for a variety of reasons: couldn’t get out of bed, was throwing up bile, was just too damn exhausted. He was used to it and he couldn’t imagine that it would ever change. He was used to it and he sure as hell doesn’t want to talk about it with anyone else. Didn’t want Rogers asking him about his ribs the first time he saw them in the shower, sure as hell didn’t want Stark to have ‘a conversation’ with him after they had sex for the first time. What he wanted was to live his life without people _asking_ , without people wanting to _know_ , without people wanting to _help_.

Natasha knew better, had known him for too long. Natasha never asked in the first place; she’d looked at him, seen his hipbones and ribs through the spandex of his workout uniform and hadn’t asked. Just like he hadn’t asked when he saw how she tapped at her collarbones when she was nervous, or how he’d found out that her suit was layered to make sure nothing jutted out. Just like he hadn’t told her when he asked someone to design a suit just the same. She never asked; he never asked; it was respectful. You don’t just barge into someone else’s life and pretend to know and understand everything they’ve been through. You don’t just ask questions ~~out of concern~~ and just _expect_ answers. Rude, at the very least, and damaging at the most.

_Barton, you look sick._

_Barton, please, **stop**._

_Clint, **eat**. You’re making yourself sick. _

_You’re hurting the team. You’re worrying everyone._

_What would your parents say? How could you hurt **them** like this?_

_I feel like I’m going to break you._

_Clint, just talk to me! **I’m** worried about you._

There was nothing to be worried about, really, he’d repeat. Get side-eyed disapproving looks. Get a sigh; get a smile, so sad it was pitiful, it was _pitying_. Everyone was so concerned, but no one fucking noticed that Nat was doing the same stuff. She was secretive; she didn’t get close; she was barred, barred, locked away in a little box. Ticking away, ticking away; he could still see her that first night they’d come back from defeating Ultron, curled up in a ball by his side, deadly-poisoned grip on his forearm, just staring at his side. She’d shed the suit. She was nothing under it. Nothing, skin, bones, straight nothing. He could see the blood, blue-black in her veins, pump beneath her skin, and he could feel it course over his forearm. Echos. Echos of themselves.

_Clint._

After a while,

_Clint. Don’t. Don’t die on me._

He’d taken her hand, given it a small squeeze, ‘Of course I won’t die on you, Nat.” She’d looked at him after that, smiled, sick and broken all the same. He’d asked about the serum not long after that; guises forgotten; couldn’t talk to Cap, of course not, not about this.

 _Death is inevitable_ , she’d told him, _but the serum stops the pain, the serum stops the need. I’m this bad because the serum lets me be. You can’t get here, you’d die._

She’d climbed into his lap then, had nuzzled her face into the crook of his neck. Kissed his cheek, and he’d turned his head, met her mouth in a hot, slow kiss. They’d fucked on the floor that night, slow and gentle, but Clint could feel himself burning up and up and up until he was absolutely sure he was in a sauna. After, she’d carried him to his bed and laid down beside him, head on his chest, and the sear of her tears dropping on his already too-hot chest.

The night after Ultron was a beginning, and an ending. The end of mutually-assured-destruction and the beginning of a solo-downward-spiral. Natasha began nudging him, little by little. Unnoticeable at first, to the untrained eye, but clear as day to Clint. She cooked food every night, set it in front of him, no matter where he happened to be, and sat, with her own plate in front of her. She would take one cautious bite and then smile at him, like she enjoyed it. He could see what she was doing, accepted it anyway, started out with taking a few bites. The meals progressively became more elaborate, including more flavors and more _calories_. Clint continued, eating a few bites each time, hating himself more and more and more. And that’s exactly how it started: a few bites of food turned into a cookie one night, or a glass of lemonade, or a few more calories piling up and up. He could feel the fat forming on his body, feel the food settling into his gut and _sticking_ there and making him so goddamn _hideous_.

“Glad to see you’re eating, Barton.” Steve made an off hand comment one day and Clint had frozen. Still, half a sandwich Nat had made him in his hand, and he nearly gagged, nearly threw up everything he’d already eaten. His hands stilled and he smiled up at Steve, waiting ever-so-patiently until Steve made his salad and bolted. Headed to the hills, headed to his little cabin in the woods that no one knew about, not even SHEILD, not even Natasha.


End file.
